


Material Witness—Serious About the Pony [Set during Deep in Death, 2 x 01]

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Material Witness [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's angry when the idea strikes him. When he remembers, and it suddenly seems like the perfect thing. Yes, he wants to make it up to her. Whatever she thinks there is to make up, however he <em>can</em> make it up, then fine, he'll do that. But he wouldn't mind twisting the knife a little in the process. And it's the perfect thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Material Witness—Serious About the Pony [Set during Deep in Death, 2 x 01]

**Author's Note:**

> This story proceeds from an idea presented in the epilogue to "Silent Night, Ferret Night" (which I've co-opted and modified a bit to act as a prologue to this series of linked stories): Castle reveals that he didn't get Kate anything for Christmas, but he has 4 years' worth of presents tucked away that he's never given her. Enter a reader who casually says, "Though now I find myself wondering what all these things are that he's bought for her over the years . . ."
> 
> This is the first story I wrote in that open-ended series.  
> 

  
  


* * *

He's angry when the idea strikes him. When he remembers, and it suddenly seems like the perfect thing. Yes, he wants to make it up to her. Whatever she thinks there is to make up, however he _can_ make it up, then fine, he'll do that. But he wouldn't mind twisting the knife a little in the process. And it's the perfect thing.

It seemed like the perfect thing when he first saw it. Over the summer when he'd think of her at the most inopportune times. But he didn't buy it then, because he doesn't buy her things (except he does—all the time). Because she's not the kind of woman you just buy things for. And because he was angry.

Now he can't shake the idea, and his bid is up to something truly ridiculous. He can't shake the idea that it's perfect, even though he's still angry.

She's being completely unreasonable. It's been months, and she's _still_ being completely unreasonable.

Unreasonable isn't the right word. He could pick at unreasonable. He could find loose threads to pull. Cracks to widen and loopholes to slip through. But she's not unreasonable: She's _non-_ reasonable.

She won't talk to him.

Before this morning, she hadn't said a word to him since May. Not a single word. Even then, when he told her what he'd found—what Clark had found—she hadn't said a word. She hadn't even _listened_ to a word. Just walked away without a second look.

Maybe he should be grateful for that. The first look was bad enough. The first look was _awful._ Sometimes he thinks he stays angry just so he doesn't have to think about it.

She has the file. He knows that she got it, though it took some doing to verify that someone had actually put it in her hands. That she'd actually accepted it, even though it was obviously from him.

And she still has it. Esposito confirmed, though that cost him. She has it. It's in her desk and she looks at it sometimes. The envelope, anyway. He has no idea if she ever even opened it.

She must have. He thinks she must have. Otherwise, why keep it? Except to prove a point. Except to prove that she could have it right there—the possibility of answers always _right there_ —and not look.

That's absolutely something she'd do. Or he thinks it is. He thinks that's something she'd do, but he doesn't really know. Despite notebooks overflowing with her—folders and files and backs of envelopes and cocktail napkins—all of them absolutely overflowing with vignettes and dialogue and character sketches and _her,_ he really doesn't know. It infuriates him. She's infuriating.

She still won't talk to him. Not really, even though Montgomery is making her play nice. Her version of nice. Which, it goes without saying, is infuriating.

It should be satisfying, the fact that she _has_ to talk to him now. The fact that he was finally able to do an end run around her. But he wasn't lying when he said it wasn't his idea.

It's so much worse than that: He had tried to talk the magazine out of it. The perfect opening and he'd tried to talk them out of it.

It feels like cheating, and that makes him angry, too. The very fact that he thinks of it that way, let alone cares whether or not it's cheating.

He's used to getting what he wants, and he's not particular about how it happens. About who makes it happen.

Six months ago, he never gave a second thought to picking up the phone and getting the mayor to fix it so he could shadow her. And if he thought twice about roping Esposito in to getting his hands on her mother's file, he doesn't remember. But now—with her—it doesn't matter how angry he gets about it. It feels like cheating.

He has to change her mind. He meant that, too—that he wouldn't try to weasel his way back in. He meant it. He won't cheat. That makes him _really_ angry because he's afraid he can't. What if he can't change her mind?

The bidding is now well past ridiculous and quite a ways down the road to something he doesn't have words for, but he keeps on with it. He ups the amount and ups it again and he can't take his eyes off the screen.

He has to change her mind and somehow this is part of it. Somehow it's perfect. He has to change her mind and it starts with showing her: He was serious about the pony.

* * *

Ryan bet against him. He can't believe it. Ryan does not get a pony, even if he could get another one, which he can't. He's already getting death threats from a collector who thinks he cheated. Like he's to blame for the fact that he got bored and the site allows bids with no ceiling.

It bothers him more than it should. Ryan, not the demented pony collector. She's someone else's problem even though she seems to have the number for his personal cell and a surprisingly rich vocabulary when it comes to dismemberment of the human body.

But Ryan's betrayal bothers him more than it should. That's not hard. It shouldn't bother him at all, because who cares what Ryan thinks? Who cares if Ryan is the romantic and the eternal optimist? Who cares if Ryan bet against him?

He'll change Beckett's mind. He's already changing her mind.

She called his family. That has to mean something. Something other than the fact that he's kind of a jerk who probably should have thought of that.

But he's not used to it. He's not used to his mother looming so large in daily life. He's not used to his kid not really being a kid any more. Sure, she reads his books and they hash out cases over Lucky Charms, but that's all made up. The books, not the cases. And anyway, he keeps that stuff from her. Anything that's too real. He builds up the spine-tingling suspense and downplays the danger, and isn't that what any father would do?

So maybe _Beckett_ is the jerk. Scaring his kid half to death. Rubbing it in her face that he might not come home some day. That parents don't always come home.

 _Shit._ So, yeah, his kid's not a kid any more and he's the jerk here in more ways than one.

Ryan was probably right to bet against him.

* * *

Flowers won't cut it, whatever Cannell thinks. Not with a woman like her. He knew that even back at the beginning. He thought about it. Back in May he thought about it, but what color roses do you send with photos from the scene of her mother's murder? Photos she begged him to stay away from.

No, she's not the kind of woman to be swayed by flowers, even it were a flower-giving offense.

She _is_ apparently the kind of woman who will take off her pants and storm a den full of gangsters to save his ass. To make sure that he goes home to his kid tonight. They probably haven't decided what color roses you send for that, either. Not that it matters. Flowers won't cut it.

He has the pony. Had it messengered over from the seller and it's burning a hole in his pocket right now. But she's breaking the news to the vic's wife and it's not really the time for a joke and a silly gift. Even if it is perfect.

It might never be the time. He still hasn't figured her out. Part of him thinks she'll laugh to hide the fact that she's secretly pleased. That she'll think it's perfect, too. Part of him thinks she'll drag the story out of him and give him hell for how stupidly out of hand the auction got and set it up across the stapler from her little troop of elephants.

Part of him thinks that she'll take him back.

The other part of him knows she won't.

He still thinks it's perfect, but it's not the time.

It might never be the time.

* * *

He's still angry. Or angry all over again. Whatever. And not just because he lost. That's not what this is about. Or not _all_ this is about.

It's the _way_ he lost. Because he didn't really lose. He changed her mind. He knows he did, even though she yelled at him and twisted his ear and told him—at length—what an idiot he was for deviating from the plan. He changed her mind.

But she's back to being unreasonable. Probably back to being non-reasonable.

And he won't cheat. He's had the phone in his hand a dozen times already tonight. He's had the mayor's private line dialed up and his thumb hovering over the button. And he can't do it. He has no idea what that's about. He'd call it guilt, but he has nothing to feel guilty about. Not really.

But he won't cheat.

He's writing. At least there's that.

Even that makes him angry, though. It's all coming fast— _fast_ —words and images and pivotal moments. He's working a notepad and the laptop and a voice recorder all at the same time because he can't keep up. He's exhausted already and he can't keep up.

But as fast as it all comes, it nags at him. It nags at him and he's angry.

It's good. Even rough like this, it's good. He likes what he's doing with Rook. He's proud that he has Raley and Ochoa down to a tee. Yeah, he's so proud of Roach that he's had to be ruthless. Had to cut their scenes back and store the scrapped parts in a notebook just for them. He'll mine that later. He'll mine it for the series as he goes along.

They'll want a series. It's _that_ good.

And then there's Nikki.

She's good, too. She's _great,_ actually, and he's half in love with her already. That's nothing new. He's always a little in love with his characters. Sometimes more than a little.

But it nags. Even though she's good, it nags. She _is_ good—maybe better than any female character he's ever written— but she's still like a shadow. What comes out is like a shadow of what's burning bright in his mind.

He has the outlines. He knows what her days are like and he can hear her voice, but it's like an echo. He doesn't quite know how she moves and he can't see the shape of her mouth at rest. He doesn't know how she hides her scars. Or if she hides them at all. Who she hides them from and why.

He doesn't know what kind of woman she is and what kind of woman she's not and that pisses him off.

He's angry.

* * *

He changed her mind. Or she changed it without him. He doesn't exactly feel like he was integral to the process. Not at first, anyway.

He'd gone to the precinct to . . . well, he didn't really know why he'd gone or what he'd intended to do. Because he knew she'd be there, he supposes. Because he had to do something. Because he'd gotten advice from a teenager. A smart, inexplicably well-adjusted teenager, but still . . .

So he'd gone with the pony in his pocket and some half-baked plan for an apology. Maybe a walk-off joke as he handed it over.

And then there she was. In the shitty fluorescent light of a quiet bullpen, just looking at him, steady and wordless. He heard his own voice coming out of him like a stranger's. An apology. And he meant it. There was nothing eloquent about it. It was clunky and not the half of it—not the half of what he suddenly thought he should be saying—but he meant it.

And she changed her mind.

He takes the pony out of his pocket. He turns it over and over in the palm of his hand.

It's perfect, but it it's not the time.

He finds the box it came in. Plain white cardboard. A small rectangle with a hinge top, like a florist's box for a corsage. He sets the pony inside and taps it gently on the nose. He says good bye out loud. He feels like an idiot but he's still talking. He's saying good bye for now and more than that.

He says that he'll see her tomorrow and maybe that will be the time. Then he says that he doesn't think so. That it won't be never, but he doesn't think it'll be soon.

He closes the box and sticks a silver seal on it. His initials in calligraphy. It's ridiculous and overblown, but well . . .

He roots around in the desk until he finds what he's looking for: A roll of narrow, silver ribbon. He winds it around the box. Back and forth and across. Back again along the diagonal. He lets his hands work. Weaves a pretty, complicated little design until he's satisfied.

He snips the end of the ribbon and ties it off. He sets the box on the edge of the desk and admires his handiwork. He'll put it away later. Slide it home on the closet shelf along with the others.

For now, it's nice to have it there. To know that it's perfect and it will keep.

 

 

 


End file.
